


First Shot

by Opy3332



Series: Four Shots [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Dates, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 04:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2678693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opy3332/pseuds/Opy3332
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have yet to go on a real date; which is really rather remiss of them if you think about it.<br/>A short vignette residing in the “Four Shots” series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Shot

 

 

The night was both amazingly successful and an unmitigated disaster John thinks privately to himself. It had all began about three weeks after they’d finally sorted themselves out when Sherlock flounced into the flat one evening.

 

 

“It has been brought to my attention that our relationship has missed a vital stage, a piece that is often considered quintessential and noteworthy,” Sherlock announced that Thursday as he walked into the flat. John looked up from his perch on his chair, startled by the sudden noise and appearance that Sherlock tended to bring with him. He felt his confusion etch itself onto his face.

“What?” John replied incredulously. “Pretty sure our relationship is going just fine, unless you have a complaint I’m not aware of.”

And it was true. Their relationship, though it had started off a bit tumultuously after the ridiculous farce that was their dance around each other, was going rather smoother than John had anticipated.  He was more than happy with its current status, despite the griping they often, good-naturedly, shared. The sex was amazing and interesting and kept John both satisfied and on his toes. Sherlock may have been moody and unpredictable, but it made their relationship work, giving John the disorder and excitement he craved. Their comradery had settled into the stasis of their now romantic relationship easily. They were, perhaps, still in the honeymoon stage of it all, but it was the most content John had been in his adult life, rivaling even his RAMC time.

Sherlock had begun to remove his gloves, pulling them off slowly as words began to tumble out of his mouth. “Anthea may have enlightened me to the fact that, despite our “somewhat surprising success after we finally took our heads out of our asses” as she so wonderfully puts it, we have not actually participated in the traditional “first date” model, nor any kind of actual date in fact.”

“Ha. Anthea pointed it out, eh? She really is your weak point.” John had said teasingly.

“Never, John. She may have an uncanny knack for making me see reason through calm facts and threats of both brute force and undue exposure to Mycroft, but, you, John, are my nexus.”

It was times like these that John was always stunned—when Sherlock rolled words off that he didn’t even seem to take notice of and that, sometimes literally, took John’s breath away.

“Sherlock, that may have been the single most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me,” John replied with a smile as he stood up and headed towards where Sherlock was still standing rigidly in the kitchen.

Sherlock stopped and turned. “Really? That seems a bit unlikely. I’m not sure any of those words were ever included in any Byronic type prose.” His face turned thoughtful, as if he were going over the words and searching for them in his mind palace, cross referencing them against the few romantic texts that had somehow avoided deletion.

“Half the reason.” John said with a shrug as he brushed a tender kiss against Sherlock’s now exposed neck on his way to the kettle.

Sherlock’s face still reflected traces of his perplexedness, but he continued on. “This case should be wrapped up by morning, smuggling, hardly worth my time, so I thought, perhaps if you are amenable then, that we could do the traditional dinner tomorrow night. I was thinking The Landau, if that would be acceptable to you. I have read that it is also customary to attend the cinema afterwards, but I’m afraid that might be a bit of a stretch for me. So I thought, again, if it is to your liking, we could, that is, I acquired tickets to see the London Philharmonic and thought we could attend. And I know flowers are supposed to be traditional, but seeing as neither of us is female, I…” John cut Sherlock off with a kiss.

“Jesus, Sherlock. You’re supposed to be the genius between the two of us. You really don’t know, do you?” John leaned in and kissed him again. “And I have never heard you babble like that, even during that case you ended up accidentally drugged.”

Sherlock coughed and looked at the ground briefly before he brought his eyes back up. “Is that a yes then?” He’d asked somewhat falteringly.

“Yes. Of course it’s a yes. And for the record,” John had said, “though I am excited about the prospect of an official date with you, I was just fine doing cases with a side of take-away and the couch with you.”

John smiled as Sherlock seemed to search his face for how much truth was behind that statement. Whatever he’d seen must have convinced him as his entire demeanor relaxed and he finally removed his coat and made his way over to the couch. He’d flopped into his “thinking pose”–sprawled out on the couch with his hands positioned beneath his chin–by the time John had returned with the tea cups.

 

It started out wonderfully.

Sherlock had sent John a text mid-day telling him to meet him and The Landau at 18:30. He had also instructed that John wear the contents of a package to be delivered that afternoon in lieu of one of his usual jumpers.

‘Despite that I have grown fond of you in them—and out of them.’ Sherlock had added to his message in a way that had made John smile and blush while he’d snuck a look at it between patients.

Once John got off work at the clinic, five and a half hours of covering the morning rush, lunch breaks, and the early afternoon rush, he’d headed to the flat to clean up. As promised, there was a delivery in the hall, a garment bag hung over the railing carefully and a stick-it on it with a hand-drawn wink on it. Meaning Anthea had delivered it. John grabbed it on his way up and tried not to goggle at the return address that proclaimed its origin to be closer to Saville Row than he felt comfortable. He showered and shaved before pulling the suit out of its hanging place.

He was a little early, but he was nervous so he let it be–better than working himself into a sweat at the flat. The suit Sherlock had sent for him fit him perfectly, tailored in all the right places and a brown color John didn’t think he would have ever picked out for himself but that complimented his coloring nicely, and John was pretty sure he’d never looked so good in his life. He attempted to look and feel like he fit in as he climbed from the cab and approached the door, but it was hard. The maître d’ had greeted him personally by name and John briefly, insanely, wondered if Sherlock had sent a picture along with the reservation.

“Any friend of Mr. Holmes is most certainly a friend of The Landau’s,” he said with a warm smile as he showed John to a small table at the edge of the restaurant.  He hardly had to wait a minute before Sherlock and his coat swirled in and sat themselves down across from him.

John thought he might feel nervous, thought it might be odd to be out with Sherlock in such a formal and real manner. But they talked about normal things; well normal for them. Spleens, dead bodies, experiments, contagious diseases, and fascinating cases were probably not usual dinner date fodder.

They started off like that, then; casually. It wasn’t until they’d ordered and settled in that Sherlock started to look nervous suddenly; there was a little tick to his eyes and he has his phone out on the table next to his hand instead of tucked away where it had been. Nevertheless, he had been making small talk while they’d drank their wine and John thought it was wonderful. He could and would stare at his mouth and hands as he talked all day long, enthralled. Suddenly Sherlock trailed off as he glanced at the newest message on his phone and leaned in close across the table.

“You didn’t happen to bring your gun, did you?”

John had spluttered.

Somehow it turned out that the sous chef was involved in Sherlock’s current case; which hadn’t been solved by this morning like promised and had turned out to be more than the simple smuggling Lestrade had thought. John wasn’t sure if Sherlock had known or not, the coincidence seemed too handy, but he’d suggested this yesterday and had seemed genuinely bored of the simple case at that point.

They’d only been part way through their salads, but all the way through the bottle of wine, when said sous chef had realized Sherlock Holmes was in his restaurant.

There was a crash from the kitchen as the man came roaring out and the entire restaurant turned in silent shock. Until a knife came whizzing into the table, imbedding itself perfectly between John and Sherlock; then pandemonium broke out. Sherlock had the table flipped up within seconds and he and John were on the other side. Sherlock’s fingers were flying across the screen of his phone as he looked around.

“I can’t believe you didn’t bring your gun,” he hissed at John.

John thought about hissing back angrily, he really did. But he figured there was no point in it. A moment of panic passed though and it turned out he couldn’t quite let it go.

“I can’t bloody well carry my gun everywhere, Sherlock. Plus, this case was going to be solved this morning you said. A little warning next time, maybe! “Boring cases” aren’t supposed to need it.”

And Sherlock’s bloody lucky John thinks so fast on his feet. He’d seized the second wine bottle, still full, just before Sherlock had upset the table and his aim was perfect, even if his timing wasn’t. The chef fired the gun milliseconds before the bottle impacted with his head. John managed to startle him enough to throw off his aim, but John still threw himself down to Sherlock the second he was done.

He crouched down and attempted to survey the damage. John’s suit was ruined. Sherlock’s right arm was bleeding and John couldn’t tell how bad it was, other than that Sherlock was criticizing the man and the case rather than the quiet that usually overtakes him if he’s actually hurt. John had a scrape across his left cheek from where a small piece of the bottle grazed him. Said bottle of wine, their second, not yet opened, was on the floor in pieces, where it’d rolled after cracking over the head of their suspect. The burgundy of the wine blended in odd patterns with the blood splatters. John had been unable to tear his eyes away once they’d settled on it. He eyed it once more as he stood; once the ambulance was here and he could breathe just a slight bit easier.

 

“You got shot, Sherlock. Shot! On our first date!”

“I know. Wasn’t it great?” Sherlock replied with a hazy smile. John stared at him in bewilderment.

“What did you give him?” He asked the paramedic attending to them.

“Not that much,” the man had said vaguely as he turned away. John’s eyes narrowed but Sherlock reached out for his wrist before he could press the issue.

“It barely even grazed me, John. It’s fine. Really.” Sherlock attempted to reassure John as he staggered to a stand. The amount of weight which he settled on John’s frame did little to assuage his worry though.

Lestrade, who’d arrived just before the paramedics, scolded them while simultaneously trying to hide his fussing over Sherlock and eyeing up of John’s smart and obviously wrecked suit. His sergeant, Donovan, stood next to him, eyeing the pair of them with a mixture of disgust and disbelief.

“You just happened to be in The Landau at the same exact moment as our suspect?” Lestrade asked with a barely repressed sigh. “And got yourself shot?”

“Yes. Excellent timing, wasn’t it, John?”

“Don’t go expecting that every time,” John replied with a sigh, not even sure which question either Sherlock or he was addressing. Because, really, what else was there to say at this point. He didn’t think Sherlock was ready to hear some of the words that had threatened to graze past John’s lips. And John wasn’t sure he was ready to same them, even if they were true. Even if he wanted to.

They didn’t make it to the concert after all, not after all that had happened, but Sherlock played John his own private one later. But, first, Sherlock had led John to his bedroom and slowly removed the ruined suit from his frame slowly with a look John could only describe as regretful. It had shifted quickly into the familiar awed and seductive look that always made John’s heart skip a beat. The kisses and touches Sherlock had bestowed were gentler than usual, but no less meaningful. John was mindful of Sherlock’s bandaged arm as they moved languidly underneath the blankets of Sherlock’s bed. It was hours later that John finally nodded off on the couch, lulled to sleep by the sounds of Mendelssohn pouring from Sherlock’s violin.

 

 

And after all was said and done, two days later, Anthea sends them a gift certificate to their favorite take-away and a DVD coupon. There is another stick-it with another wink etched onto it. John makes sure to flip off the nearest CCTV the next time he is out.


End file.
